


Heatseekers

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, OT3, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-15
Updated: 2003-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando is always touching people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heatseekers

_Viggo_

Orlando is always touching people. He's a toucher, can't keep his hands to himself, likes to wrap his long arms around a hobbit's shoulders or a man of Gondor's neck, mussing their wigs, rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven cheek right against the dirt on their skin. It's the thing Viggo loves most about him, the way love from Orlando is given out like a man with riches to spare, free-flowing and completely of-the-moment, simply because he wants to and there's no reason not to. All the hobbits are like that, really, but Viggo thinks it was Orlando who started it -- or at least Orlando was the first one Viggo noticed.

But then, he's the first one a lot of people notice. Not on purpose, of course, but as a function of Orlando's personality, his need to always be in motion, in action, to throw himself at life like it needs attacking and conquering. It spills over even to the most mundane moments -- whether he's sporting a mohawk or silky blond hair, cutting swiftly through space carrying a bow or a glass of beer. He draws the eye, makes a room sit up and track his progress.

Viggo loves that about Orlando as well, that the same energy that crackles through him while he's plunging to earth at gravity-speed in the middle of a bungee jump is the same energy he exudes in normal conversation or waiting to deliver his lines to a camera. It's an energy Viggo identifies with, agrees with, on a level as fundamental as breathing.

Standing in the courtyard of Rivendell, he watches Orlando kicking a hacky sack around with the hobbits, one hand clamped on Elijah's shoulder for balance. They're going to get called out for that soon, Viggo bets, when one of the makeup crew spots them. Typical Orlando: fun first, consequences be damned. His legs swinging loose and out of control, his face split wide with a grin.

It's a weird thing, being here on the periphery of the set while the younger cast members horse around. Normally he would be with Sean, shooting the shit about some fish Viggo just caught, or the football team in England Sean's so crazy about. But Sean's in England himself now, putting his marriage to rest, and it's only his stunt double walking around the set -- making Viggo squint now and again so he can be sure exactly who he's seeing.

"You think you know a woman," Sean had said, the night before he left. "You think you know yourself. I've done it three times, Vig -- and I always thought I'd got it right with the next one. And why didn't I? A man's s'posed to get wiser as he gets older, innit he?"

Human nature, Viggo wanted to tell him. It's the way of man, to grow and change, to wake up one morning and find you're a stranger to the person you were twenty years ago, or a year ago, a month. He's seen it happen from second to second even, through the lens of his camera when a person's eyes shift and catch the light in a different way.

But he knew it was only hollow knowledge -- nothing Sean wanted, or even particularly needed, to hear. So Viggo simply listened.

Sean had done his own changing in New Zealand -- they all had. And it wasn't so much the letting go of his wife that was troubling him, since these were merely formalities and the real separation had been cemented a year already. Viggo thought maybe it was the reminder, the pulling back home, the remembrance of mistakes and regrets that had temporarily been forgotten. New Zealand was a paradise in more ways than one: you journeyed a far distance to reach the place, immersed yourself in a world of elves and dwarves and hobbits, surrounded yourself with people who knew nothing about what you'd accomplished or failed at back home. It was liberating: it was a chance to reinvent, an opportunity to slip into a new skin.

*

They were cooking dinner in Viggo's kitchen that night. The small space was a bustle of moving bodies, instructions called over people's heads, requests for particular ingredients. In the living room Peter was telling tales with various cast and crew members gathered round, waving his hands to demonstrate some battle scene or other in the works. Occasionally shouts of laughter or gasps of amazement drifted through the doorway.

Sean stumbled in halfway through the preparation of the stew, in search of more beer. Viggo handed him a knife, smiling. "Cut us some carrots and be useful, why don't you?"

Sean grinned. "I'm far better with a sword, mate." But he hunched his shoulders and settled in with it. Viggo supervised for a minute, correcting cutting angles and advising on grip until finally Sean waved him off. "Get on wi' you," he said. "You're not the only poncy git who can do a spot of cookin', you know."

Viggo raised his hands and backed away. "Got it. And getting on, sir, yes, sir." He dodged a swift kick, grinning.

Later he was uncorking another bottle of wine when he heard a clatter of metal against tile. Looked up to see Sean crouching by the counter, slightly shamefaced with his hand poised over the knife on the floor.

Viggo gave him a look. He put the wine bottle down on the table, crossed the kitchen in two steps and picked up the knife. Hilt toward Sean, who took it from Viggo in the same way he'd taken his sword back, lying on the carpet of leaves. Pressed it to his chest. "Thanks."

"That superstition makes absolutely no sense whatsoever," Viggo reminded him.

Sean simply shrugged. "It's me dad's, and I'm not likely to let go of it. What can I say? 'S the only one I've got, so I suppose I'm allowed." He put the knife in the sink and went to the wine bottle, finished opening it. "Anyway, superstitions aren't supposed to make sense, are they."

"Guess not." Viggo poured a thumbful of wine into the stew. "How about this: I predict only good and wonderful things for your future. Now the question is, who do you believe?"

"My captain and king, of course," Sean said easily. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Oy, Viggo. I really don't want to get on that plane tomorrow. I've missed the girls like crazy, y'know, but with all the mess, I'm just wanting to be here instead of there."

"You'll be back before you know it," Viggo said. "Time passes so quickly."

"Sure, I know." Sean smiled then, his face crumpling. "We had no idea what it would be like. Did we?"

Viggo shook his head, smiling back. The kitchen was warm, full of pungent scents, and he could hear another ripple of laughter from the living room. "No, we didn't."

The next morning Sean was off, his plane climbing the sky without a hitch, though Viggo knew he'd still be clutching the armrests with a death grip.

He stood in the airport, listening to the quiet sounds of the now-empty departure area, watching the plane get smaller and smaller. It was such a strange thing when a person left. It was like you could feel their presence more, he thought, even more than when they'd been right beside you.

*

As predicted, one of the women responsible for the hobbits' feet darts forward already scolding, and the hacky sack group breaks apart. Elijah, Sean and Billy look abashed, but Dom follows Orlando's lead, and cajoles the woman until she gives them a reluctantly forgiving smile.

After a moment Orlando spots Viggo standing to the side and trots over. "Filthy human," he says happily, even though right now Viggo's the cleanest he's been for perhaps the entire production.

"Fairy godmother," Viggo tosses back.

"Wish they'd get on with the bloody scene already, man," Orlando grouses.

"What, is your hair starting to frizz?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I don't look nearly as pretty as I did two hours ago."

Viggo puts his chin in his hand. "You know, you're right. Now I'm wondering what else you could possibly contribute to the movie. Think it's time to find a new Legolas."

"Bastard!" Orlando laughs, and punches him on the shoulder.

Out of impulse, Viggo reaches out and grabs him with both hands, his fingers entwined at the back of Orlando's neck. He draws the younger man close, plants a kiss to the smooth, warm skin of his forehead. "Don't ever change," Viggo tells him, utterly serious. "I mean it."

Orlando is still laughing, but softer now, his breath hot on Viggo's cheek. "I'm not planning on it, but thanks."

Satisfied with this answer, Viggo lets him go.

In an hour it begins to drizzle, a fine cold sheen steady enough to ruin makeup and costumes, so everyone heads back to their trailers. Viggo stalks into the Cuntebago last, shaking off water and making Orlando yelp. In the corner Lance perches in Sean's makeup chair, paging through a novel.

Viggo's feeling restless. The inside of the trailer is stuffy and moist, and his boots squeak on the floor as he paces.

"Makin' me fuckin' dizzy, man," Orlando warns. He doesn't look up from his cell phone, though. It's one of those fancy new things with games and flashing lights, and he looks completely odd hunched over it, wearing elf garb with his long hair tucked behind his ears.

Viggo's eyes fall on Lance, the stringy Boromir wig obscuring part of his face. He squints, tries a quick mental calculation, strides over and grabs the phone from Orlando.

"Hey, what--"

"Do you have Sean's number in here?"

"Yeah, speed dial nine. But first of all, Vig, it's like two in the fucking am over there, and second, how about using your own phone, yeah?"

Viggo ignores him. He mashes a few buttons, not sure he's even getting the right ones as the phone's so damn small, but in a minute it's ringing, and he puts his other hand over Orlando's mouth to keep him quiet. Orlando makes an exasperated noise in his throat.

The drizzle shushes down outside. A brief, hanging moment. Then Sean's voice comes over the line, soft and husky with sleep. "Hello?"

"Lord Bean," Viggo says. "Your court awaits you."

" _Vig_ go, what the fuck?" A sound like a snuffle, tired, messy. "You any idea what time it is?"

"Lord Bloom tells me it's about two in the morning."

"He's fuckin' right. What th' 'ell do you want?"

"Just to say hello. It's raining here."

"Tha's fantastic. 's raining here as well."

"So how's the motherland? Treating you okay?"

"Quite good actually. 'cept for all the mothers. I seem not to be well-liked right now, they've all been rather snide about me going halfway round the world for a year." Sean chuckles. "Women, eh?"

"Yeah," Viggo smiles, looking at Orlando. "Women."

"My flight back's next week. Can't wait."

"Let's take a trip when you come. Do some driving."

"Sounds grand." A yawn. "I was havin' a lovely dream. Peter had turned into a hobbit, for real, and you and I were tossin' him across the cavern in Moria."

Viggo laughs. "Can I tell him?"

"Think maybe we should wait till all my scenes've been shot and are in the can."

"Yeah, that's probably smartest."

"My turn to talk," Orlando interrupts. His hand is already reaching for the phone.

"Lord Bloom wants a word with you. Send us your flight details, okay? We'll come and get you."

Sean's affirmative gets lost in the transfer of phone to Orlando, who immediately starts jabbering about his latest surfing exploits, and some candy or other he wants Sean to bring back from London. But Viggo doesn't mind. He goes to the door and props it open, looking out into the curtain of rain. The scent of water mixed with earth, water from deep within the earth, caresses his face.

It is a different place here, a different life. The rest of the world seems incredibly far away.

* * *

 _Orlando_

They take Orlando's car. The roads are shiny and wet, because as it turns out, the rain hasn't let up since the day they were supposed to shoot the departure from Rivendell. Change of schedule, then. It's been Helm's Deep for the past three nights, and the cold and wet has sunk into his bones, like a ghost settling in for possession. There's an ache in his back as well, from the old break, and as he brings the car around from its turn he pushes a fist hard against the column of his spine.

"You okay?" Viggo asks from the passenger seat. He looks exhausted, holding his head up with one hand, elbow propped against the window. Orlando sees he's been drawing in the condensation on the glass, strange curving lines forming no picture at all.

"I'm fine, just a bit of rheumatism." Orlando laughs. "Man, I hate the fact I can say that at twenty-three."

Viggo's voice, as always, is mild, a note of slight surprise woven into its timbre. "I had a knee that used to always act up, when I was a kid. But for some reason it's gone away now, like I've grown out of it or something."

Orlando glances over again. "I can't even picture you as a kid," he confesses. "Were you as cool as Henry?"

Viggo shrugs. "I was kind of an outsider, I guess. I guess I grew up faster than everyone else, moving between countries and cultures so much."

That's something that didn't surprise Orlando a bit, when he first learned of it. Traveling is etched in Viggo's face. It's obvious, looking at him, that he's seen things, been places. "I wish I'd done half the things you have," Orlando says. He's said it before, and will probably keep saying it, even when his list of doings has actually surpassed Viggo's.

"You've got time," Viggo says. His eyes on Orlando are light and reflective. "You know, you should come with us, me and Sean. We're gonna take a roadtrip, as soon as we get a few days."

"Yeah?" Orlando doesn't even try to hide his pleasure. "Yeah, man, that'd be awesome. I'm not crashing a party or anything, though, am I?"

Viggo shrugs. "We'll teach you how to fish."

They're quiet for the rest of the drive, listening to water splash beneath the wheels. Outside the sky is captured in white-gray light. Orlando searches, unsuccessfully, for rainbows. It's all right, though -- he's seen plenty of them already in New Zealand.

When they get to the airport it turns out they're late, or Sean's plane was early, so they head straight to the baggage claim area. It's the most crowded part of the airport. Orlando lets Viggo lead the way, but can't help stubbing his toe on someone's baggage cart. He spins around to avoid colliding with distracted travelers, and Viggo puts a steadying hand on his elbow, his lips curving in a smile. Orlando sends him a grateful look.

He sees Sean first. Standing by the baggage carousel, looking a little dazed and worn. But as they approach he looks up, and his face spreads into a smile.

Orlando's already running. He reaches Sean in two seconds flat, throwing his arms around him. He feels Sean's chuckle rumble through his chest, deep and almost tangible, his bear-sized hands patting Orlando's back. He does his best to overbalance Sean with his weight, but the other man is bigger, and knows Orlando's tricks.

"Good to see you, you northern bastard," Orlando says. "How was the flight? Did you look out the window even once, or were you too busy losing your breakfast in the loo?"

Sean steps back and gently pinches each of Orlando's cheeks. "Nah. I just thought of your ugly mug the whole time, and that got me through."

"Fantastic. Works for any occasion, I've been told, so don't you forget it."

"Works for any occasion where his mouth isn't attached," says Viggo's voice, behind them.

Dropping his arm to Sean's waist, Orlando turns them round so Viggo can embrace them both. The circle of arms and bodies is warm, solid. Orlando buries his head in someone's shoulder, clasps a hip firmly, presses himself into the middle. For the first time in a week, he can't feel the cold and rain in his bones.

*

When they reach Sean's house, Sean invites them in. They mean to stay only a few minutes, long enough to finish a beer and toast their feet on the space heater, but at some point Orlando looks over and Viggo is asleep in the armchair. It's a lovely sight: his socks bulky and warm-looking, but mismatched, and his mouth hanging softly slack.

Orlando's a bit wired still from the airport, but Sean's drifting as well, jetlagged. There's a gentle, hazy look in his eyes as he stares out the window at the white sky, and it makes Orlando wish for a camera. Or for Viggo to wake up, because Viggo would appreciate it, would understand exactly what Orlando's feeling, looking at Sean's face.

"What time are you scheduled to go in tonight?" Sean asks. His voice is pitched low. The sound of it always makes Orlando think of down pillows, feather comforters.

"I think about seven. Shooting's for nine, you know, and makeup in between."

"Prob'ly take you an hour or so to drive?"

"Yeah, think so."

"Okay." Sean nods, standing, rocking a little. "Sleep wherever you like, I probably won't wake up till tomorrow. You can borrow my alarm clock."

Orlando follows him down the hall, shadows flickering over Sean's shoulders. The curtains at the bedroom window are drawn, so that the light inside is dim and gray-tinted. Sean motions absently toward his bedside table, where a silver clock blinks 12:00 over and over.

"Ah, fuck," he mutters, picking it up. He collapses on the bed, propping himself on an elbow. "I dunno how to set the damn thing."

Orlando stretches out beside him, raising his arms over his head, feeling parts of his spine pop into place. "We'll wake up on time. I know how to take cat naps."

He listens to the clicking of buttons as Sean fiddles with the clock, lets his eyes fall shut. Sleep is a warm sea, just off to the side, full of dark water. Any minute now he'll roll over and sink into it, deep.

Time passes. Through his eyelids Orlando is aware of the light in the room, still and unchanging. Sean eventually sets the clock back on the table, and the bedcovers rustle as he pulls them back.

"Come under here," he murmurs, and Orlando is too tired for surprise, instead slidedrags himself between the sheets as if it's completely routine. He hardly opens his eyes to do it, uses just his hands to find Sean, like a heatseeking mole. He curls himself against Sean's solid mass, wraps the heat of him in his arms, a leg thrown over Sean's hip. Sinking faster and faster into the dark.

"Thanks for the candy," he whispers, and Sean's rumbling chuckle guides him toward the sea.

*

The London Tube is on rails above the water. There's a storm amassing in the sky. Outside the window the ocean is green, blue, green. They've got their fishing poles propped on the sill, but no one's had a bite.

Sean balances on the edge of his seat, knees spread like a sumo wrestler. He's saying something, but Orlando can't quite make out what. He reaches out with his toe, touching the end of his pole. He feels Sean's hand on his knee, pressing his leg back down. Looks over, sees Sean shaking his finger. Naughty boy.

The Tube follows a gentle curving path over the ocean, side to side like a fish's tail. Orlando finds himself standing to look out on the surface of the water. He almost loses his balance, until Sean's hand reaches out and catches him. He drifts over to stand between Sean's legs, letting the motion of the carriage sway him back and forth so that he taps against Sean's thighs. Sean looks up at him, and his eyes are green like the sky reflecting the ocean. Warmer though, infinitely warmer.

Orlando leans down, toward Sean, and in the middle of inclining his head, just before contact, he opens his eyes.

The Tube is gone. The swaying is just his brain, swimming awake. And he's horizontal, not standing. Sean is nowhere to be found.

Orlando scissor-kicks his legs beneath the blankets. He stretches out an arm, feels a region of warmth just next to him and knows Sean left only recently. The clock on the table blinks 10:36 now, but that can't be right either. The light hasn't changed.

He hears the toilet flush in the adjacent bathroom, water splashing from the sink. A moment later Sean pads back toward the bed and climbs in. He smells like soap. His feet graze Orlando's legs as he slides them down. Orlando hisses at the chill.

"Sorry," Sean whispers. And then, "Are you warm enough?"

Orlando's still half-caught in the tissue web of sleep. "Mmm," he breathes. "'m good, yeah."

"Good." Sean turns onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. Orlando watches with one eye open for signs of sleep, his other eye mashed against the pillow, but Sean remains wide awake.

"Thought you weren't waking up 'til tomorrow," he teases. A thought: "Fuck me, it's not tomorrow, is it?"

"No, no, we've only been dozing an hour or so. I think me jetlag's just not working right. 'm dead tired, but I can't sleep."

"Sounds like jetlag to me, man."

Sean smiles. He lifts one hand from behind his head and scratches at his beard. Orlando's open eye follows the movement of his hand back behind his head, the bend of Sean's elbow, the flex of muscle beneath the skin.

And there, sudden but observable, a flare of desire like a match striking in slow motion. He's not surprised -- it's not a new thing he's feeling, not for Sean. But he thought he'd tamped all of that down already, once first impressions had faded. Sean is, after all, thoroughly unbent, married three times, a father.

But Orlando's gaze relentlessly follows the golden hairs on Sean's arm, the carved lines around his mouth, the scar above his eye. He studies the hawk curve of Sean's nose, strong chin and the slash of his mouth. Wonders what Sean would taste like beneath that jaw, if he would still be salty and warm with sleep, or cool from soap and water.

Gradually, he becomes aware that Sean's aware of being watched, that the silence in the room has thickened, and all he can hear is blood pounding in his ears. It's not a new thing he's feeling, but it's different now, because suddenly he isn't the only one feeling it.

He raises himself up, just enough to whisper in Sean's ear, breaking the quiet: "Sean?"

Sean blinks but keeps his eyes shadowed. Orlando puts a hand on his arm, feels the muscle jump beneath his fingers.

"Sean, what are you thinking?"

A small, nervous rumble. "What are you thinking?"

He's trembling a bit, and Orlando realizes he's afraid. "I'm thinking," he says simply, calmly, "that I want you."

Sean exhales. His breath shakes, in fact his whole body shakes. "I've never done this," he says, and there is wonder in his voice. "I'm not even sure I want to."

"You could try," Orlando says. "I know, it's weird and you've no idea what it'll be like. But I promise, it'll be good."

A heartbeat, another blink, and then Sean turns to him. Just a slight angling of his body toward Orlando, neither offering nor overpowering -- but it's enough. Orlando leans forward, slowly, his own muscles beginning to tremble, and touches his lips to Sean's.

It's like kissing a piece of fire: small and not quite a blaze, but there, oh, there. Orlando feels the flames lick all through his body. Kissing, kissing. He slips his tongue into Sean's mouth, exploring, patient, waiting for Sean to respond. After a moment Sean's arms, hesitant at first, encircle him. And suddenly he finds himself pressed back against the pillow, and Sean is covering him in heat.

It's strange, he has time to think. He'd always thought that if either of them were to go this route, it would be Viggo.

* * *

 _Sean_

Strong hands, stroking upward on his thighs. It feels like all of him is moving upward, pushing for something higher, trying to capture a kiss, arch against a caress. Liquid fire pulsing through his groin, he's ready, god, he's ready.

Orlando's mouth is a cavern of heat. Sean opens his eyes and can't quite believe what he's seeing, Orlando hovering over him, worshiping his cock with tongue and hands. And when Orlando raises his own dark, wicked eyes to Sean's, he almost loses it, right there.

Orlando lets go with a last lingering circle around the crown of Sean's penis, dragging a groan from his throat. He climbs back up Sean's body, tonguekissing deep and purposeful, so Sean can taste himself in Orlando's mouth. Sean winds his fingers through Orlando's hair, holding him close, his other hand sliding down the smooth muscled plane of Orlando's stomach, slipping around his hip to cup his ass.

Orlando's cock brushes his, and Sean hesitates, then takes it in his grip, tight, stroking down toward his body. It's a move that always drives Sean to the next level, and it seems Orlando likes it as well. He makes a sound like a wounded animal, throws his head back, and Sean mouths his neck, inhaling smoky sweat.

"Sean, yes, Sean," Orlando's saying, hand covering his so he's squeezing even tighter, forcing it up and down. Sean's never held another man's dick, but he finds he likes it, likes the wiry hot feel of Orlando's body writhing in his arms, likes the way it makes his own arousal spike higher and higher. He doesn't know how this is going to end -- he only knows he doesn't want it to.

Orlando comes with another cry, his semen warm and slick on Sean's hand. He's still spasming as he pulls Sean down on top of him. Orlando kisses with all of his mouth, wet and open. After a moment he unwraps a condom, smooths it down over Sean's erection, guides him forward. Sean is eager, blood leaping, but he hesitates.

"I dunno what to do," he says, embarrassed. "Won't it hurt?"

"Of course it will, you northern bastard." Orlando kisses him. "But it gets pretty fucking good after that."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Another kiss, tongue stroking Sean's lips. "Get in there already."

"Well," Sean kisses him back, "if Lord Bloom requires."

"Lord Bloom fucking _orders_."

He pushes forward then, entering Orlando's body, feeling him stretch open, and fuck, fucking _hell_ \-- it's tighter than anything he's ever felt. He can't believe Orlando's letting him do this, but god, it's good, a million times good, so hot and close around him. He wants to push even harder, but it isn't until Orlando gets his wrists beneath Sean's arms that he actually does it. He feels Orlando's body engulf him in heat, hears, dimly, Orlando curse.

"Oh, shit, are you all right? Orlando, I'm sorry, fuck--"

"That's the idea, mate," Orlando grits through his teeth. "Keep going, 'm all right."

Sean moves his hips, thrusting deep. Orlando gets his legs even higher, changing the angle, and soon it's easier to move. The heat is humming in Sean's blood now, the pressure building hotter, faster. They rock together, Orlando moaning beneath him, and soon Sean feels the edge approaching again, his body surging to meet it.

"God, Orlando," he hears himself saying, and they're the only words of English he knows. "God, godgod _god_..."

White heat, blazing, all of him at once clenching and letting go. A million pieces of Sean falling back to earth, and beneath him Orlando murmuring, "Yes, yes," over and over again.

Orlando wraps Sean up in sheets and arms and legs, nuzzling the underside of his jaw like a cat. Sean doesn't speak -- he wouldn't know what to say if he did, but Orlando seems to understand because he doesn't speak either. They drift between sleeping and waking. His body poured against Orlando's, the room cradling them close in the gray light.

*

Eventually it stops raining, and the Helm's Deep shoot pauses before it's even really begun. Orlando, Viggo and John return to the Fellowship, emerging from the cold wet night into the brighter, happier circle of men. Life resumes its normal course of action.

With exceptions, of course.

Kissing, full-body, pinning Orlando to the wall of the makeup trailer, grinding against him through layers of cloth and leather.

Orlando's hand beneath the table, smoothing over the length of his cock as Billy rises to get a pitcher of beer.

The wet heat of Orlando's mouth on his neck, his skinny hips pushing his cock deeper into Sean.

The sensation of splitting in two, of being filled, entered. Of opening.

Sean finds himself watching Orlando compulsively, the quick physical grace of Legolas when the cameras are on, the loose-limbed, nervous energy with which he moves in real life. In bed he likes to study his face while sleeping, or stop in the middle of lovemaking just to memorize the long winging arch of Orlando's eyebrow, the shape of his jaw. Orlando will look right back, unflinching, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

It's all discovery for Sean. Every day he is pioneering new territory, exploring Orlando's body like a recently acquired country, allowing his own body to be mapped in return. He isn't even sure what to call it, what they're doing. They're certainly not discussing it with each other -- they're just _doing_.

His thoughts are filled with new findings, so much so that it takes him a while to figure out that the rest of the production is aware of what's going on. It's a small world they're living and working in, and even though neither of them has been particularly demonstrative in front of others -- at least no more so than Orlando usually is with anyone, and this, too, is an unspoken agreement -- still, one day Sean looks around and realizes, _They know_.

Sean is used to being in the public eye, used to ignoring the public's expressions of approval or disapproval when it comes to his relationships. But it has been some time since he's been at the center of such a close, tight-knit group of people, people whose opinions he actually finds himself caring about.

This, too, is a process of discovery. Navigating the subtle changes in his relationships with the others, the nuances added to interactions as simple as small talk, or an invitation to dinner. Changes that show people are assuming, that they are taking things into account.

One afternoon he pops his head into the hobbits' trailer to bum a smoke, and finds himself the object of Ian's unabashed scrutiny. "Come in, come in," Ian says. "We haven't really spoken since you got back."

All Ian can locate in the trailer is a tin of Elijah's clove cigarettes. They each take one, then elect to sit on the steps of the trailer in the fresh air. The cloves give the smoke a spicy burn, and the smell reminds Sean of incense in churches.

"How have you been?" Ian asks. "You're such a stranger lately. I've missed our conversations."

"I'm sorry," Sean says, and he is. "I don't mean to. Been busy, I s'pose."

"Indeed." Ian has a very Mona Lisa smile, layered and mysterious. "You've gone through some changes, very large, life-altering ones. I imagine it'll be a while before things start to settle down again."

Sean leans back, propping his elbows on a step and stretching out his legs. "I keep wondering what it'll all look like when it does. You know, like tea leaves, when you try and find a picture in 'em, see what they tell you."

"If only life were as predictable an art as that."

Sean takes a drag on the cig, mulling that one over. "Yeah, well," he says, "sometimes I'm quite glad it's not."

Other conversations are not so peaceful. Billy and John are all right; it's as if nothing remarkable has happened at all, in their eyes. But Elijah has taken to wearing a puzzled expression around Sean, bordering on worried even. And Sean can't fathom why, but Dom's good feeling toward him seems to have cooled, almost overnight.

The one time he brings it up, Orlando merely scoffs. "Dom probably wanted you for himself or something. Elijah, too, you know, now I'm thinking of it. I always knew those hobbits were nancy boys." His eyes gleam, and his fingers start to open the buttons of Sean's shirt. "Too bad, though, they can't have you 'til I'm done with you."

But it isn't only the reactions from other people. It's his own as well that are changing.

*

They're filming pickups for the Uruk-Hai battle scenes at Amon Hen. The day has been an endless wash of kneeling in cold, dank leaves, with fake arrows coming out of his torso and blood capsule after blood capsule crushed in his mouth. Behind him Sean can hear metal clanking and shouts from Peter: "Feint left! Now swing toward his head! Viggo, get ready to duck, and Lawrence, you swing!" Occasionally one of the fighters lets out a grunt or a curse as a blow hits too accurately. It sounds real, from Sean's position. Knowing Viggo, most of it probably is.

Finally Peter yells, "Cut and wrap! Everyone, check your messages tonight, but I look forward to not seeing any of you 'til Monday with the sun." A few whoops come from the pile of Uruk-Hai on the ground: Monday is three whole days away. People begin to move and talk, the stunt men helping each other up, Dominic and Billy trotting off to get their hobbit feet taken off.

Viggo lends Sean an arm, casting a dark glance at the arrows. As they walk to the Cuntebago he's still swinging his sword in swift, dangerous-looking arcs, muttering to himself in what sounds suspiciously like Elvish. There's a cut at the corner of his mouth, trickling blood. No capsule necessary there.

Viggo's technique is something Sean respects, and feels in awe of, but it would never be a method he could use himself. He's too conscious of all the machinery, the cameras and costumes, the people in shorts and T-shirts standing just a few feet away. It's performance, nothing more, and when the day is over he lets Boromir slip back to the rear burner in his head. At the end of the day he's only Sean, tired and ready for supper, wanting a pair of trousers that aren't soaked at the knees.

Viggo doesn't say much, and Sean finds himself watching him out of the corner of his eye. He's been doing that a lot lately -- watching Viggo. The other day he realized he'd been staring at Viggo's lips for almost an entire minute. He looked away quickly, but not before Viggo caught him at it. "Sorry," Sean mumbled, flushing. "You were uh, in my line of sight."

Oddly enough, he hadn't even been thinking of Viggo at all then, but of Orlando, something shiveringly good which Orlando's mouth had done to him the night before.

Inside the trailer, Orlando is already in his makeup chair getting his ears removed. He swings around to look at them as they enter, and the look he gives Sean is such a smoldering one that it stops him flat in his tracks. _Christ._

Then Orlando ruins it by snickering at the arrows.

"Eh, bugger off, sweet cheeks," Sean growls. But he brushes his fingers along Orlando's collarbone as he passes.

When he looks up Viggo is watching them, his face unreadable.

The removal of the arrows takes almost an hour. Orlando makes pointed jokes about phallic symbols ("Sean, look! She snapped your twig!") and takes crazy-angled photos with his Polaroid. The whole time Viggo paces the length of the trailer with his head down, Anduril balanced on his shoulder. He doesn't even bother with a bandage for the cut, or with removing his Aragorn clothes. Sean calculates that after a fight scene like that, it'll take Viggo all night to unwind.

"Want to get an ale after, mate?" he calls over, once the makeup team finishes and leaves. Viggo simply nods, chin tapping his sternum.

Orlando's staring off into space now, thumping out some kind of rhythm on his knee, accompanying music only he can hear. He's already changed into street clothes, looking clean and ready for anything. Sean looks at him and wonders what he's thinking behind that sleek, delicate expression.

"Let's go fishing," Orlando says, completely out of the blue.

"You mean instead of boozing?"

That gets Sean a wry look. "Well, no, I was thinking we could do that on the trip. I mean, we've been talking about it, yeah? And now we've got 'til Monday, so let's just drive. Drive 'til we hit some water."

There's a won't-take-no lilt to his voice, and Sean starts picturing it, the three of them taking off into the wilds of New Zealand, nothing but a case of Newcastle and a change of clothes each in the boot. He's never been an outdoors-ish kind of bloke, preferring tamer things like his garden at home, but Viggo and Orlando make tame look like the boring rot it is.

Viggo's still pacing at the other end of the trailer. "Lord Bloom's got an idea," Sean calls. "Got your poles?"

Viggo looks up. "At my house. Beer, too."

"That's it, then, we're going." Orlando gets up, stuffs a pack of smokes in his back pocket after taking out two and handing one to Sean. He motions to the door. "Breather?"

"Need me socks and shoes," Sean says. "I'll be out in a bit though."

"Ta." Orlando grabs Viggo on the way to the door, plants a kiss in the middle of his messy hair. The trailer door accidentally slams as he clatters out onto the steps.

Viggo stands very still, waiting until the door stops bouncing in its frame. Then he looks at Sean and says, "You really want me to go?"

Sean is surprised. "Well, yeah, it were your idea in the first place weren't it? Takin' a road trip and all?"

"I just...wouldn't want to intrude." His voice is soft and careful, and Sean realizes it's the first time Viggo's ever said anything about what's going on.

He realizes he hadn't even thought of Viggo intruding, and neither, apparently, had Orlando. "There's nothin' to intrude on," he says, honestly. "I mean, me and Orlando...it's not that kind of thing, like."

Viggo looks nonplussed. "How do you mean?"

"I mean, well yeah, we're, you know, we're doing things." The words sound foreign in his mouth -- he's never spoken out loud about this, not to anyone except Orlando, and he doesn't think dirty talk actually counts. He stumbles to elaborate. "But we're not doing 'em as a...you know, a couple, or anything like that. It's just...we're just doing 'em."

Viggo is visibly thinking about this. After a moment he sheathes his sword. "If you're sure."

"I am."

"Three days and three's company...."

"Will be three good days."

Viggo looks like he wants to say something more. In the end, though, all he does is shrug. "Okay. We'll go."

Sean grins. "Great. Maybe we'll even get Orlando to capsize 'is boat."

Viggo's answering smile is faint and ghostlike. "If he ends up in the water, we'll just tell him we're frying elf for dinner."

* * *

 _Viggo_

It's true, Orlando does capsize the boat, but it's not purely his own fault, he loudly maintains, as Viggo and Sean couldn't take instruction on where to lean if it killed them. Which it almost did, but luckily they can all swim. Viggo kicks toward shore, the fresh, clear New Zealand water breaking over his head. He thinks a fish brushes the back of his hand, but it darts away too quickly to catch.

They get into the tent with the space heater roaring, shed their clothes and hang them outside to dry. Orlando dives into the sleeping bags first, wriggling around in nothing but a pair of blinding canary boxers, while Viggo and Sean share a cigar, puffing smoke out through the open flap. Orlando whinges about the stench, and they thwap him until he shuts up. The quiet lasts for only a minute though, as the next thing they hear from the pile of sleeping bags is a moan about physical abuse, filthy human scum, old dogs who can't learn new tricks.

"I'm pretty sure I learned a few new ones from you," Sean says, grinning, and this time he gets a thwap from Viggo.

Later they pass around the Newcastle brown, getting pleasantly drunk on empty stomachs, and the inside of the tent feels like a warm hand cupping over them. Orlando climbs out of the sleeping bags and promptly gets bitten by a mosquito. The welt on his hip is skinny and red -- he keeps scratching at it, and Viggo can't take his eyes away.

"I'm fair knackered," Sean says after his second bottle, yawning. He crawls into the space Orlando just left, and soon his soft snores buzz the air.

"I can't get him to sleep with his mouth closed," Orlando whispers, giggling like a kid. "He drools, too, man. I'm always changing my pillowcases."

"Heard tha'," Sean's voice drifts up, lazily, followed by the sound of smacking lips.

Viggo watches Orlando's fingers playing near his navel, and wonders what else Sean might hear.

*

 _Orlando_

Between the two of them the rest of the Newcastle gets squarely tucked away. Orlando's head feels stuffed and fuzzy, and he can't quite make sentences connect in the middle. Viggo says something in that quiet, husky voice, and even though Orlando has no idea what it was exactly, the sound of it makes him sway toward Viggo, away, and back again.

His mosquito bite feels like a burn. He can't feel the rest of his body, a sure sign he's dead pissed, but that one spot seems to be on fire. He gets the notion that he wants to put the fire out.

"Let's go swimming," Orlando says. "I'm hot."

Viggo appears to mull the suggestion over, like it's the question of the age. "You'll get wet."

"'s all right, you know, so long's it's not all the time." He paws at the entrance flap, trying to figure out how the zippers work. "Damn, I think we're locked in."

"Let me do it." Viggo's strong warm fingers tangling with his, pushing him gently out of the way. The zipper slides down with a "fizzzt!" sound, and the fresh night air pushes into the tent, bringing with it the smell of water. Orlando thinks of rain, a curtain of rain, but the air is dry. It's just the river, dark and deep.

"Coming, yeah?" thrown over his shoulder, and he scrambles out into the sweet-smelling grass. There's a breeze, cool on his shoulders, tightening his small nipples. Lurching steps, the stars swinging in blurry white mini-arcs overhead. Water splashing around his ankles, his knees, his hips.

It is indeed cold, freezing shock to the bones like so much of this country has been, but Orlando plunges in anyway. Best to do it all at once, he's always thought, in case the opportunity slips away in mid-step. He keeps his eyes open beneath the water, searching for fish.

Viggo's arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him against a warm naked chest. Orlando twists in the embrace, arches upward for air, gasping in, knife to the lungs. He finds Viggo's mouth, hot and wanting. He kisses back for all he's worth, pressing closer, trying to get as much of Viggo as possible without drowning.

Viggo's hands on his back are mobile and urgent, shaped differently from Sean's, but the hardness between his legs is much the same. Viggo groans deep in his throat as Orlando touches him, and that sound is his own as well, uniquely Viggo, unmistakable even with a head full of alcohol and air.

"Let's go inside the tent," Orlando rasps, as Viggo kisses his neck.

"But Sean?"

Sean, yes, Sean. Orlando smiles in the darkness. "We'll teach him something new."

*

 _Sean_

He isn't dreaming, which is why he knows it's real, when they come into the tent and descend on him. The cold water on their bodies shocks him awake, and their lips and hands make him shiver.

Soon, though, the three of them create their own warmth.

Viggo's beard, scratching at the juncture of Sean's hip and thigh. Orlando's slippery cool fingers on his penis, teasing it erect. Someone's mouth, someone's tongue flicking over the tip. Someone else, moaning with a sound like a sigh.

He puts out his hands, touches a shoulder too muscular to be Orlando's, draws Viggo upward to taste his mouth. Viggo brings with him the scent of the night outside, sharp and clean. He kisses the same way he does everything, with a single-minded, unwavering purpose.

A breeze overhead, the ceiling of the tent creaking gently. Rustle of sleeping bags, whispering voices. Sean reaches, seeking the heat created between their bodies, giving it back to the others as they make it. There is no light in the tent, so that their forms become indistinguishable. He touches them, one after another, and says their names in the dark.


End file.
